My Boat, Your Sea
by Eleantris
Summary: He clings to her as he slips away; holds her up as he parts and allows her to fall. He is not so much her anchor, as her sea. A short drabble-style oneshot. Galex.


_**Um, so this came to me quite randomly when listening to a song called 'Fireworks' by You Me At Six, and there are some lyrics from that in italics here. :) I'm not really sure what it is exactly, but yeah…hope you like it. **_

_**Eleantris. :)**_

_**Disclaimer – I don't own Ashes to Ashes, or the song that inspired this. **_

_**My Boat, Your Sea**_

* * *

_Remember when_

_You were my boat_

_And I was your sea_

_Together we'd float_

_So delicately_

He clings to her as he slips away; holds her up as he parts and allows her to fall.

He is more a living, moving force than a rock. Yet still there is something constant in the way he flows around her, through her, past her. She has come to realise that her first thoughts were wrong; everything is so much more complex in this world. Or perhaps, her other world was simpler.

He is not so much her anchor, as her sea. He surrounds her, envelops every living particle of her being; he is all consuming and encompassing – all she can see, hear, feel, touch and smell, in the darkest moments of her darkest days. When everything feels like the hopeless fumbling of a fool lost alone in the woods. She remembers, or rather she thinks she remembers, that the Germans had a word for that. _Waldeinsamkeit._

He is an unceasing, ebbing flow of constancy, of an adjective so essentially him that she isn't sure it exists. He is the strong silhouette always in her line of vision, the eyes that pierce her and the smile and pout she knows only she can decipher. He roars in her ears but whispers too, like the crash of a wave that eventually tires, content with merely whispers of foam against a silent shore. His hands too, are coarse but gentle, the sharpness of rock reduced to the fine brush of sand. Tenderness, she learns, is as much a part of him as brutality. The calm and the storm are entwined within him, swirling in his eyes, the colour of which she can never quite decode, like the sky and the endless seas beneath it. The scent of him fills her sinuses, always polluting and permeating, and she can't remember not being drunk on it, can't recall a time when she wasn't intoxicated by every subtle, heady, understated and overpowering note of smoke and strength, whisky and wine.

He is all-encompassing, and yet, he is too much. She can't reach far enough to touch all of him, to see all of him. There are secrets and mysteries buried far deeper than she can ever dream of digging. She could yearn for every drop in the ocean but never drain all of it.

In much the same way as a wave jolts a boat, sending it surging further from the shore, he pushes her and then hauls her back. He shoves and then tugs, drives her forwards and then drags her backwards. She bends and she breaks, backwards and forwards, the boat and the sea, searching for their middle ground. He throws her up and then helps her down, lets her fall and pulls her back up. They move as a symphony, out of tune, trying, always trying, to ensure neither comes out the victor.

Their holding pattern is so delicate in its vivacity, and already the fractures are beginning to show. Hairline cracks that will splinter like wood; the surface will rupture and he will surge in, like water, forcing her apart and swelling in every empty part of her. She can feel her pressure points even now, straining against a weight that could be all the world's oceans. He is trickling his way in, and soon the flood walls will break, and she knows she can't hold him out for much longer. The power of him is too enticing, the mysterious depths too alluring, his constant presence too reassuring to lose.

Even now as she floats, at an impasse, unknowing, what tomorrow will hold, she feels him there. She may have run aground but she is only waiting, waiting for the tide to come back in, and sweep her away again. She doesn't like solid ground so much; it feels too much like cold reality. A slap in the face, her hand on his cheek. A warrant card slammed down on a desk.

She prefers to sail, lost in the oceans of this unknown world with him.

He clings to her as he slips away; holds her up as he parts and allows her to fall.

_But that was back when we could talk about anything_

* * *

_**I really don't know what you might make of this, but I think I wrote it for around the time at the end of series 2, when Gene has suspended Alex and she's left alone, not knowing how things are going to go the next day. Anyway, I'll let you make of it what you will! :) Reviews are as ever appreciated!**_

_**Eleantris. :)**_


End file.
